


The Bench

by Bitterblue



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitterblue/pseuds/Bitterblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will and Lyra. Midsummer after many years. For a prompt by andtheworldahead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The bench is gone. Will stands in the dappled sunlight of midsummer, staring in confusion at the place where his heart has rested for more of his life than not. The bench is _gone_ , wisps of pollen dancing in sunbeams like visible Dust where it ought to be. There is a small, craggy rosebush in its place, and a sundial.

Will is thirty six years old, but he feels its loss like he is thirteen again, like he has lost his fingers again, like he has lost Lyra again.

"That old thing? It’ll be cut down for mulch. Half of it lost to rot," explains a gardener when found and pressed. But even so, he lets Will carefully saw off the arm carved with their names, and accepts his thanks—and cash—with an amused smile.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The bench is gone. Lyra is not surprised, because it feels like most things are gone from that brief part of her life by now, even as it reopens hurts she isn’t sure have ever healed. Will ever heal. She stands in the garden, the day overcast and a little cool to be midsummer, frowning at the place where it ought to be. There is a new sundial in its place surrounded by a bed of of rose bushes, still mostly thorns and little else.

Lyra fingers the papers in her pocket and sighs. She had brought with her the official notice of Iorek’s death, addressed to her from the embassy, to read to Will. Everything is being lost, it seems.

"Over here! Look, Lyra, over _here_!" Pan chatters excitedly, so she goes to him by the new rose bed. Scattered amongst the stems and thorns are pieces of dark wood, chipped into mulch, and near the top of the pile is a piece with her name carved into it, as familiar as the grain of Pan’s fur. So the bench hadn’t moved so much as changed form, she realizes with a laugh. Together they dig out the matching piece with Will carved into it. Lyra pockets them both, and strolls out of the garden towards home. A change, yes, but not lost. Not forever.

 


End file.
